


lotus hearts

by Virgo827



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Dragons, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, One Shot, Star Wars Is Pain, The Old Gods (ASoIaF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 12:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14592591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virgo827/pseuds/Virgo827
Summary: He sees a lake burning, a field of lotus blossoms crisped to black, scales like endless night.Dragons destroy everything they touch.





	lotus hearts

**Author's Note:**

> For Anidalaweek 2018, Day 6 on tumblr - Set in an Alternate Fandom

 

i.

  
[embers in the center]

 

  
They call her the little queen. Anakin can see her now, the golden coronet on her brow, the bloodred rubies and gleaming orange opals adorning the intricate metal flowers, twisted and braided together. A crown of lotuses, with fiery gems in their hearts. A crown, a real crown, and she, a real queen.

 

Or a princess, at least, if her father has not perished in the siege. He had asked the Jedi knight, Obi-Wan, why they call her little queen. When there's a boy in Alderaan they call prince, a royal family deep in the southern lands of Zygerria. Young Prince Lee-Char of the isles of Mon Cala.

 

Obi-Wan had blinked up at him, grey-blue eyes wet and cloudy. "What? Oh." He bowed his neck, eyes going back down. The knight had answered the question in a mumble, never looking up from the braid, cut off and coiled in the palm of his hand.

 

"Several houses retained their royal heraldry. After the destruction of the civil war, after the last Council was convened, and the treaty created the honored position of High Chancellor of the Kingdoms. The Royal House of Amidala pledged their loyalty to the Great Republic, gave up some of their sovereignty - " He had choked off, then. "S-sovereignty... apologies, Anakin. I must - I must go." He clenched the braid in his fist as he walked away. Ani swallowed the rest of his questions.

 

He does not know what sovereignty is, but he knows a queen when he sees one. And Padmé Naberrie is a queen. Slaves are not often in the company of royalty, so Ani stares, drinks in the sight of her.

 

Her back is straight and proud as she sits upright upon her chestnut stallion. The only member of her house present, with the rest of her family trapped in their palace at Theed, surrounded by the encampment of the Trade Federation's mercenary companies.

 

It was she who negotiated with the Gungan horselords, she who commands their spears. She who won their harsh and unswerving loyalty. The Gungan leader sits astride his own silver mare on her right, speaking to her in the guttural nomad tongue. One of her handmaidens whispers the translation.

 

Anakin sees Padmé hold up her hand. The handmaiden pauses. "Torusha gol son me," the queen says, halting and slow.

 

The Gungan laughs, tossing his oiled black braid. "Yes, little queen! Torusha gol son me. May your arrow fly true. This is how you say to your warriors, I am with you. My spirit rides with you into the coming battle."

 

"I have heard you shoot just as well from the saddle as you do while standing still, with your feet planted," Padmé tells him.

 

He grins. "Better."

 

Ani sees her smile, sees the light flash against her coronet, and thinks - _I would fight for her._  He has heard stories, of knights sworn to their sword, sworn to their liege's shield. He is too small now to wield a great blade with a name, but he will grow. He will grow and carry his own steel some day, sharp as a dragon's fang. Ani will lay it at her feet and swear that it shall drink its fill of the blood of her enemies.

 

The knight Obi-Wan Kenobi stands a few paces in front. The old ragged braid is nowhere to be seen. Ani eyes the bronze hilt that pokes up from his scabbard. A blue gem winks at him. Set near the crossguard, it glows, luminous in the light of the sunset.

 

The gem is chosen by the Jedi when they are anointed as knights in the service of the Great Republic. The ritual is spoken of only in whispers, hushed rumor. The old gods lead the knights to their swordstone, they speak from the trees, from the mouths of birds. The gems lie in a cave under the earth, and the Jedi enclose the fledgling knight within, no food or water, only allowing them to leave after a week's time. After they have carved a gem from the rock wall, or asked the gods to present it to them. Ani's mind runs free with the tales. Queens and knights and gods handing out swords. He can scarcely believe he was in the desert a few weeks ago, the sand blistering his feet and Watto's slap stinging on his cheek. 

 

He only notices he is staring when he hears Knight Kenobi clear his throat. Ani jumps, and starts to bow his head, slink away. The knight stops him, one hand to his shoulder, fingers light upon his rough tunic. "The sword was forged for me just a few weeks ago," he tells Ani. The pale eyes blink slowly, heavily. "My master commissioned it before we received our last - " his lips press into a white line, just for a moment - "last orders."

 

"Does it have a name?"

 

Obi-Wan Kenobi shakes his head. "Jedi Knights do not name their blades. There is no need. They do not seek glory, there are no stories told of their swords."

 

"It should have a name," Ani argues. "Strong blades are all named."

 

"To name something is to become attached to it," the knight says. "I need no name for my blade, for it is merely an extension of my arm."

 

Anakin does not understand. He doesn't want to tell the Jedi that. "I want to forge my own blade," he says instead. "If I'm not to be joining the Holy Order, I want to have a curved blade like the Rylothians. Or a spear, like Boss Nass. Or a thin blade, like the waterdancers from Nautilan."

 

Knight Kenobi parts his lips, hesitates, and finally speaks. "I don't - the Council may..." He exhales a tiny breath. "The Council has not made a final decision on your training."

 

He stares. "I thought - "

 

"The old gods are inscrutable." It is not an answer. Anakin's mouth curves into a frown. Obi-Wan lets go of his shoulder and runs a palm over his copper hair.

 

"Master Yoda's dreams are green," he says. "Green dreams are not often easy to decipher. He believed - well. It is clear that the old gods speak to you, Anakin. It is clear that you hear their voices, that you feel the force of their will."

 

Anakin does not know these gods Obi-Wan speaks of, the gods of the Jedi. His mother's gods are not old. They have simply existed, since the desert was a single grain of sand, and they will be there, until the rains return. He did not hear any voice at all. No words. When he released the arrow, the knowledge was already there within his mind. The path was there, would be there, is there still. He can trace the arc with his eyes.

 

The clash of armor had sparked on either side, all around, until he was lost in the melee, stumbling, underfoot of the horses thundering past, carrying knights and soldiers both. The flame of a torch lay guttering on the ground, and something in the heat had called to him. Ani answered. He touched it with the head of his arrow. Wished so fervently, that when the arrowhead lit with a searing yellow tongue, it felt like he had willed it to life.

 

He had raised his head and his gaze fell upon the barrels of oil in the center of the mercenary command post. Leagues away, with a stiff wind besides. But his arm came up, nocked the arrow, pulled the string. The battle grew still around him, bodies gone pale and and dim like ghosts, nothing but residue, a memory, a battle that had once happened here painted upon a canvas. He had seen the path the arrow would fly. Knew it would fly. And so he had loosed the flaming projectile. That perfect arc curved high.

 

The command post is only a pile of ashes now. Ash and bone, dust stirred by the eastern breeze. Obi-Wan follows his gaze. The knight sighs softly. "I must speak with Master Windu. I shall return soon." He steps away.

 

The loud bark of the Gungan boss startles Ani into looking over. "There is our dragon boy!"

 

They are staring at him. The Queen, her handmaidens, the Gungan warriors. Padmé's mouth curls into a grin. "Ani," she says, beckons him over with a wave of her hand.

 

The skin on the back of his neck turns warm. "What?" he blurts out.

 

The Gungan laughs. "I saw our enemies in flame and thought dragons had returned to the land."

 

Jar Jar peeks around the flank of his leader's horse. His reddish brown skin is painted with beautiful swirls of blue paint. "Ani is brave boy. Meesa think he needs bell in his yellow hair. Bell for victory." Anakin bites back a grin, then remembers he doesn't have to, anymore. There are no Masters but the holy Jedi in this lush green land. They are far from the territories of the Outer Rim, from the Way of Chains, that road across the eastern continent traveled by the slave caravans. He smiles at Jar Jar, wide and wild.

 

"I would rather put spear in his hand," Nass says. He waves the wooden haft of his own spear, tipped with a wickedly curved blade. "Then step away and watch."

 

He knows they are laughing at him, the way adults do, with words unsaid hidden behind their teeth. But the Gungan has given voice to his dearest hope. He jerks his head quickly in a nod. "I will be a warrior." Ani lifts his chin.

 

He preens under the attention of the Gungan raiders, as they pat his head, let him heft the weight of their spears and try to aim. But it is Padmé's parting comment that stays with him, burrows deep under the bones of his ribs, sears into the tissue of his heart.

 

"I expect you will be. A bold and brave knight." She flicks her curls and they tumble across her back, deep brown against the crimson silk. He watches the spill of hair, eyes arrested by the gleam, near as bright as her crown.

 

"Dragonknight, we will call you!" The Gungan's voice is loud, and the horselords around him echo the name. Ani is shuffled between them, surrounded by the raucous sound of their cheering. It feels like the flame has transferred from that arrowhead to somewhere within, kindled by Padmé's eyes and Jar Jar's whoop, the sly smile of the handmaidens as they sway with the flow of the crowd to remain beside their queen.

 

Obi-Wan's hand returns to Anakin's shoulder. "The Council is reconvening. They wish for you to attend them."

 

"Do you think they've decided?" His voice is so low that Obi-Wan has to lean down to hear him.

 

"I do not know. But there is the matter of Master Qui Gon's burial. It is the Jedi custom to burn their dead and release their ashes to the wind, to rejoin the boundless forces of the old gods." The corners of his mouth turn down. His face is pale, pulled tight across his skull. Ani's giddiness is blown out with a sudden chill. Master Qui Gon is dead. Obi-Wan's new sword, the blue gem in its hilt, seems like a funeral gift, now.

 

Anakin nods. He turns to go with the knight, but Padmé - the queen, the queen - leaps easily from her horse. She picks up the edge of her gown, steps carefully over the waterlogged earth. She inclines her head to Obi-Wan, gracefully enough that her crown scarcely shifts. "My thoughts go with your Master on his journey to the lands beyond the water."

 

Knight Kenobi bows in return. "My thanks, princess. I hope you will find your family well when the siege of Theed is broken."

 

"We shall know soon enough," she says. "We journey to my family's seat directly." Padmé turns her gaze to Anakin. "Ani, my people and I owe you much and more. I am certain we shall meet again, and it will be a great honor to absolve my house's debt." The warm brown of her eyes shimmers. He feels that certainty, like when he'd felt the inevitability of the arrow's descent. Like the spark, the catch of fire.

 

"We will meet again," Anakin agrees. 

 

Obi-Wan pulls him one way, Padmé's handmaidens pull her the other.

 

 

 

ii.

  
[seeds waiting to bloom]

 

 

She first hears of it from Dormé. Does not think much on it, besides feeling slightly cheered there is reason to commission a new gown, one worthy of a feast put on by the Lord Chancellor. Yellow silk, that would be charming. With embroidered flowers. She has been dreaming of the lakeside in Naboo recently, the golden glaze of sunlight on the fields of spring green, dotted with violets and pink lady's slipper blossoms. The rush of water echoes in her ears when she wakes.

 

It was an honor, to be named to the High Senate. Her father rules in Naboo, and trusts her to stand for his interests at court. Padmé welcomes the duty, is humbled by the trust he places in her. But it means she spends much of her time in Coruscant. The sumptuous, cavernous Senate Dome sits lofty above the rest of the city, on the highest terrace with the Chancellor's palace, not far from where the ancient Jedi Temple crouches upon the cliffside riddled with caves. They say the wind whistles through those caves, that it sounds like voices. A few of the less partial of the court say that is why the Jedi have gone mad, listening to old dead gods speak from the air.

 

Padmé does not hear voices in the wind. But the stench of the lower levels wafts freely, up even here, to the balcony of her bedchamber in the palace. The crooked alleys and the seething, hot smell are a constant presence. Those upon the crowning terraces can only ignore the depths of the city on a still day. Corsucant is nothing like the sweeping boulevards of Theed, no gentle architecture or graceful spires.

 

She turns away from the overbuilt sprawl. The prospect of a feast is a bright spot. A night of music, dancing, the sweet taste of wine on her tongue, the Hall of a Thousand Swords filled with candlelight and laughter.

 

Her handmaidens wait inside her bedchambers. Dormé with a silver-plated brush, Cordé with her yellow silk gown. Teckla holds a jeweled net for her hair. "You shall have to bathe again, if you were outside." Cordé says with a sniff.

 

"Oh, it is not so bad as that." She scolds her eldest handmaiden with a reproving look, though Lady Cordé has proven impervious to any correction less severe than a headman's axe. Cordé is the only daughter of Lord Res of Cloudpoint, and she much prefers the lightly forested hills of her family's seat to the twisted shape of Coruscant, penned in by cliffs, a maze of shoddy terraces. The handmaiden does as she wills, and Padmé finds she rarely minds. Still, she must keep up appearances of propriety, if only for the sake of young Teckla. She is lucky that Sabé remains without, on guard duty with her slender spear. Those two only encourage each other.

 

"If you are certain," Cordé mutters, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

 

"The feast tonight will be a spectacle," sweet Dormé says. She is forever softening Cordé's bluntness. "It's for the dragon knight, so the entire court shall no doubt attend." 

 

Padmé's skin prickles. "Dragon knight?" She sits down hard on the stool before her silvered mirror.

 

"The one sworn to the Order, the one who took the black dragon for his sigil." Dormé hums, separating a strand of her hair and twisting it before pinning it carefully, the beginning of Padmé's braids.

 

"Skywalker," Cordé adds absently. She straightens the yellow gown on the bed.

 

"Ani," she murmurs. Padmé knew he was accepted into the Holy Order. She has heard tell of his skill at lance and sword, whispers of Lord Chancellor Palpatine's clear favor for him. She has not seen him in person, not since the day before she and her Gungan army broke the Siege of Theed. He will be at the feast tonight. The guest of honor, it seems.

 

"I remember him too," Dormé says. "The little boy with the arrow."

 

Cordé cuts her a sharp look from the corner of her eye. "The little boy who killed all of the commanders of that mercenary company. I remember as well. It seems he has not lost his fondness for the fire."

 

Padmé turns to raise a brow. Her handmaiden's dark eyes flash. "The pirate fleet off the southern coast. He lit their ships afire while he was still imprisoned below deck." Something catches in Padmé's throat. She swallows it down.

 

"They say he walked away, untouched by the flames," Teckla whispers. "Do you think it is true?"

 

"I think he dove into the water," Cordé says, snapping out the length of Padmé's shawl. "Obviously."

 

Dormé's fingers brush the shell of her ear as she pins the jeweled net. "I think it was brave of him. Lady Kava says he is skilled with the blade. She saw him in the melee, last year."

 

"Mayhaps Palpatine will have him carve tonight's roast pig with his legendary sword," Cordé says with a bit of a sneer. Padmé does not restrain a laugh. She thinks of little Ani, the way he'd watched the motion of the soldier's weapons with hungry eyes. She had said something - told him he'd be a knight, one day. How amusing, that she was right.

 

Padmé feels light on her feet as she descends from the senatorial wing of chambers. The Lord Chancellor has agreed to escort her. Padmé had accepted gratefully - to single out one of the lordlings or the knights will invite even more speculation on an upcoming betrothal. She has no intention of weathering the needless gossip. Her sister Sola is providing her father the heirs, and is thrilled to do so. A hasty decision on her own marriage could prove disastrous. She thinks of the plans her father broached with her before she left for Coruscant. "You cannot stay there forever," he warned. "I know you will do well in the Senate, but do not forget you have duties here in Naboo."

 

"Father, we said we would wait to find a husband suitable - "

 

"I do not speak of your husband, my daughter. I speak of your inheritance."

 

Padmé had only been able to stare. She knew Sola did not want to remain in Theed, preferred her lord husband's seat in the sweeping pastoral grasslands at Naboo's center. Tellberry Hall was simple and beautiful. Sola flourished under the open blue sky. But still - as the elder sister, to give up her claim - she can hardly fathom it.

 

"Sola," she had said. Not quite an argument, but the beginning of one.

 

Her father had shaken his head. "Your sister came to me, my petal. She says that she might be the eldest princess, but that you are a queen."

 

Padmé is not certain that she feels like a queen. It is true that she enjoyed what the position of command offered her. When she was the only member of House Naberrie known to be alive, she took charge. It was good, to be listened to. To be taken seriously, to have others quiet when she spoke. She did not have to sway a council, or cajole a reluctant lord. Padmé acted as she saw fit, and saved the palace of Theed and her very kingdom.

 

There is so much she could do, could change, as Queen of Naboo.

 

Chancellor Palpatine bows when he greets her from outside the Hall of a Thousand Swords. They had been surrendered by each kingdom, each house, when the Great Republic formed. The swords still hang on the walls, a monument to peace made of killing steel.

 

"Senator Amidala." Palpatine takes her by the arm. "A true Nubian beauty if I have ever seen one. You have me longing for the shimmering waters of home, my dear girl."

 

"I long for home as well, my Lord Chancellor. My thoughts dwell on Varykino, of late. The lotuses will be in bloom."

 

His eyes glitter pale. "If it is the flora of Naboo you so desire, then I have something delightful to show you." Palpatine waits for their announcement, leads her inside the hall. The eyes of the court are upon them.

 

So when he leads her to an elegant display, tiers of Nubian lotus blossoms in clear water, housed in sparkling crystal, Padmé has to smile. She has to curtsy deeply, to play the gracious princess. She barely hears when Anakin Skywalker is announced. The lotus swirls on top of the water in the bowl in front of her.

 

She cannot look away from the bloom, cut free from its own leaves, from its sisters. Removed from the lakes and rivers of Naboo and displayed here in a crystal bowl. The lords and ladies coo about beauty and elegance. They speak of white velvet petals. Sweet perfume and mesmerizing symmetry. Her father's words ripple in her head, their own cool tide. _You cannot stay there forever._

 

At her side, Anakin Skywalker clears his throat. When she looks up, he steps back just slightly. "My queen," he murmurs, bowing his head. The title is wrong, but she does not correct him. There is no need to be cruel. "The, uh - the sigil of your house. The lotus, I mean." He opens his mouth, and closes it. Clears his throat again.

 

Padmé swallows, somehow flustered at his sudden appearance. She had thought - well, she had thought to see him stride in, tall and proud, a knight in purpose and bearing. He is tall. Towering over her, yet he hunches his shoulders. He wears a coat of plates, a black surcoat, edged in yellow like her own gown. The lining of his cloak is shimmering azure. "Yes," she finally says, turning back to the lotus.

 

She can feel his gaze on her neck. "You - forgive me, but you do not seem to enjoy the arrangement."

 

"Lord Palpatine honors his homeland. It is a gesture well-meant." Glancing around the hall, at the floral display and the crimson cloth on the tables, the white and gold of the plates and goblets, Padme wonders why a feast meant to honor a knightly prodigy is colored so Nubian in style.

 

"It is." Anakin reaches out, brushes the edges of the petals with a fingertip. "Why does it make you sad?"

 

Startled, she glances up. His deep blue eyes hold hers. The tilt of his lips is sheepish, but he does not take back the bold assertion. She thinks of a polite lie, but cannot muster the effort when confronted with his earnest expression. "It will die," she tells him. "Cut away from its sisters. From the waters. They will toss it out tonight, after the feast, and it will rot away."

 

Padmé bites the tip of her tongue. Anakin only hums. He shifts on his feet. "I - I did think it was strange, when I came here," he offers, somehow gruff and reluctant and shy all at once. "All the cut flowers."

 

"You never cut flowers in Tatooine?"

 

His head jerks. "Oh. You remember."

 

"Of course I remember," Padmé says, puzzled. "Dragonknight."

 

Anakin's face slowly turns red. Padmé watches, amusement swelling in her chest. He is a Jedi, a warrior. People whisper his name, they whisper of dragonseed, dragonblood, prophecies and conflagrations. She cannot attach any of that to him, not now, as he trains his gaze on the floor, something bashful in the gesture. "There are not enough flowers in Tatooine to cut them away without intending to use them, as food or medicine," he mutters. "To be killed for a few hours of beauty."

 

Padmé takes pity on him. "I suppose it is strange," she muses. It is an oddly poetic thought for a knight. He grudgingly takes his gaze from the floor. His lips twitch up, a half-smile.

 

Suddenly possessed with a desire to keep talking, to remain here next to the lotus, a lilting melody in her ear and Ani nearly brushing her arm, Padmé blurts out, "In Naboo..." She trails off. Anakin waits patiently, silent and attentive. Her cheeks flush at the completeness of his focus. Now that it is her turn, she finds the amusement has turned a bit more sour than she would like.

 

She is used to words coming easily, fluttering praise and endless chatter, rife with suggestion and dense with implications. Court speak, she calls it. False and light. Yet Anakin listens as if every syllable she utters is worth its weight in gold.

 

"In Naboo, the lotus flowers only grow in deep water," Padmé says. "They show you where it is safe to swim. We do not disturb the lotus in its bed."

 

"That is even more strange." Anakin's eyes widen. "I only meant - I have never known a place with so much water. Freshwater, to drink. So much water that flowers can grow in it." He cuts off, bites his lip. "I - I should like to see them."

 

He is genuine, she can see. Padmé wonders how he has survived at court, when every word he speaks feel so raw, so honest, stripped of pretense.

 

Then there is an influx of guests, buffeting them, a rogue current. She loses sight of Anakin. Spins from one place to another, until the candles burn low, and she finds herself cornered by several lordlings sniffing out the odds of a betrothal.

 

The prince of Alderaan is well-spoken and polite. She likes his air of thoughtfulness. Lord Clovis is effusive with his compliments. Padmé accepts them with a practiced smile.

 

"As lovely as any lotus here," he declares. "My lady Amidala." Her lips feel strained, holding her pleasant expression. _Cut flowers,_ she thinks. _A lotus away from water. Killed for a few hours of beauty._  She turns away, her face going blank, his gaze leaving a bitter taste on the back of her tongue.

 

She meets Anakin's eye. Thinks of him, at the lakeside in Naboo, leaning forward to peer under the glassy surface. She wonders what he looks like without his armor. She wonders if he knows how to swim. Padmé believes he would tell her honestly if she asked. Mayhaps she could teach him.

 

A new smile rises on her face, softer. Slowly, his own grows in answer.

 

 

 

iii.

 

[grows in deep water]

 

 

Padmé fixes one elaborate curl. The jeweled pin has been digging into her scalp for the entirety of the banquet. She had insisted on the style her mother always favored, a Nubian fashion, half-swept up in intricate braids, threaded through with pearls, the rest of the curls falling down her back. Here in Coruscant, where they favor stern headdresses and tight updos, the loose, decadent style draws stares. The dramatic cut of her deep purple Nubian gown likewise.

 

Anakin has not been able to keep his eyes from her all night.

 

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Ani strides across the floor towards her. He will ask her to dance, she knows it, by the way his master Obi-Wan frowns after him. They are both clad in the knightly armor of their Order, with its symbol inlaid in precious stone upon their breastplates. Obi-Wan’s armor shimmers in the candlelight, white and gleaming. Anakin’s own dark metal eats up the reflection of the flames, casting a sullen red glow across his chest.

 

“My queen,” Ani murmurs as he nears. He takes her outstretched hand and kisses her knuckles.

 

Padmé swallows, taking a moment to glance and see who is closest to them. "Knight Skywalker."

 

His blue eyes flicker. The corners of his mouth turn down, and he releases her hand. Padmé feels the presence of everyone else in the room as a physical weight on her chest, pressing her heels down into the floor. Her limbs are frozen. She cannot reach out and catch his fingers again, no matter the ache in her chest.

 

Lord Chancellor Palpatine speaks from her other side. "Queen Amidala, you look remarkably radiant this evening." Padmé jerks, covering the motion by smoothing the contour of her dress. He smiles at the knight. “Anakin, my dear boy. Don't you agree?"

 

"Yes of course," he says. "Radiant." His voice sends a tremor down her spine. 

 

Padmé bows her head. "You both flatter me." She turns to Palpatine. "My parents extend their regrets, my lord. They wanted to be here, but my sister is in her childbed."

 

"I understand." Palpatine lays a hand across his sternum. He had been a frequent guest at her family's seat in Theed, since Padmé was a babe swaddled in silk and lace. "I am so very grateful they have allowed Naboo's gracious young queen to attend in their stead. The kingdoms sing your praises. I am honored, knowing that your presence has been sought after at every gathering from Coruscant to Naboo."

 

“It is my own honor, Lord Chancellor." In truth, she had little choice but to attend. The newly christened Grand Army of the Republic had formed up in the courtyard, after they demonstrated their skill in the joust, in the melee. Anyone who hadn't made an appearance had been noted, she is certain. The Chancellor, the Supreme Leader of this foreign army, had noted it. Padmé had no wish to foster appearances of division in the ranks of the nobility, not so soon after the Separatist's declaration of war. 

 

Padmé’s gaze flits to Ani. He still wants to dance with her, she can tell, but the thought of a hundred eyes upon them ties her stomach into knots of worry.

 

Palpatine releases her shoulder. “Now, we shall open the dancing!” he calls out, louder. The lords and ladies around them begin to move accordingly, clearing the expansive white marble floor. The Chancellor glances between her and Anakin. His pale eyes twinkle with something she can’t name, but her heart starts to pound a little harder. 

 

“I think I shall like our own heroic Knight, Anakin Skywalker, to begin! I’m sure his grace with the blade will translate well to the dance.” There is a ripple of good-natured laughter, of cheers, shouts of Anakin’s name, of _Dragonknight_. His tanned cheeks flush, but he waves and steps forward, waiting for a partner.

 

Palpatine turns to her. “And may I ask you to join him, my queen? You two do make such a striking couple, and I have heard talk of your light feet.” Her breath catches in her chest. “Will you do us the honor?”

 

He is staring at her, there is nothing for it but to agree. “I would be pleased,” Padmé says, lifting her chin, letting her curls fall over one shoulder as she strides out to meet him.

 

Anakin takes her hand in his. Music swells through the cavernous hall and they begin the dance. It is hard to think, with him so close, warm breath on her cheek, the hard ridges of the metal gauntlet in her grasp. She looks up at him, at the ridge of his brow, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. She can’t. Not now, with everyone watching.

 

The Chancellor must be able to see it, see Anakin’s desire for her. It’s written in every line of his body, damn him, and damn her to, for letting it call to her, overwhelming her with affection and exasperation and the feel of being wanted.

 

She had planned for this. Stay elusive, stay impassive. No one must know. Anakin can be forgiven much, in this court, given his service, the valor he had shown in the battle at Geonosis. Yearning might be against the knightly code of the Jedi Order, but it can be overlooked for the sake of a hero, a true knight. As long as she plays her part with a subtle, public rebuff of his affection.

 

“Padmé,” Ani whispers. Her head tilts upward of its own accord. The blue of his eyes looks deeper in the shadow that falls across his face, less like a summer sky and more like a still mountain lake, or the rush of a wild river.

 

 _I’ve never seen so much water_ , he had whispered into her skin, as they lay tangled together in the sheets, in the little cottage on the coast of Varykino, whose location had been a sworn secret, kept from all but her loyal handmaidens. She wants to be back there, playing in the warm shallows, showing Anakin the world he’d never seen, the world he deserved. Watching his eyes light up, as they are now, for the duration of their brief dance.

 

The only one they’ll likely ever share in Coruscant. This is the closeness she wanted, the sweet heat that drove them on their knees before the old gods.

 

_My husband._

 

It barely feels real. That night, under the heart tree, their voices low and urgent, the ribbon wrapped around their joined hands, it had all happened so quickly. A kiss tasting of hope, sparking something like a fire in her chest, a fire that still smolders in her with thoughts of his calloused hands, his golden curls, the way he looks down at her with those brilliant blue eyes. His smile. The soft caress of skin. Even the impatience he had shown, eager and fumbling, so characteristically Ani she could cry or laugh just thinking of it.

 

A yellow flash in the corner of her eye. A woman’s gown. Padmé breaks his gaze, glances around, realizes other couples have joined them at some point. The music hits a melancholic crescendo, humming in her bones, beautiful and sad, and then the dance is over. She releases Anakin’s hand and it feels like tearing away a piece of her own heart.

 

_Impassive, Padmé. You do not care for him._

 

Anakin bows his head. “My queen,” he says, voice low and rough. It sounds nothing like the title Palpatine had given her. Low and intimate and painfully, achingly tender.

 

Padmé gives him a regal nod. “K-Knight Skywalker,” she says hoarsely. “My thanks for a lovely dance.”

 

She turns away first, gliding across the floor until she reaches the other side, far enough that she can’t see his face anymore. Leans against a cold stone pillar and pretends that it is not all that holds her up.

 

The Chancellor appears at her side again, surprisingly quick and silent. “Thank you, Padmé. In these turbulent times, it does the kingdoms well to see their most favored knight. And Anakin so enjoys your company.”

 

Padmé straightens from the wall. “It was my pleasure, Lord Chancellor."

 

He studies her. “Yes. Of course it was.”

 

She swallows hard, trying to banish a phantom touch, fingers curled around her own, the brush of lips. Palpatine nods to her and returns to the high table, where he sits on a simple ebony throne.

 

Later. Padmé will be able to hold her husband later, in the dark, when it is just the two of them. It will have to be enough.

 

 

 

iv

 

[blood that comes like rain]

 

 

He sits too close to the fire. Obi-Wan is always telling him to move back, to move away, lest he be burned.

 

Anakin knows the flames will not touch him. He was born in the heat. The sands of Tatooine are scorching, blazing with the force of the reflected suns. _My little dragon_ , his mother used to call him.

 

Dragons are not spoken of in Coruscant. Master Windu said they all died out, centuries ago. But he remembers the cheers of the Gungans, the cries of "Dragonknight!"

 

Against the Council's wishes, he'd remembered, and taken a black dragon for his sigil. The scaled body curls around twin suns, white and blue, on a sandy yellow field. He wishes his mother were here to see. He meant it as an honor, to her, to Tatooine. However much he hated the place, he has the desert in his blood. His mother's gods live in the sunwarmed earth, in the deep hollows of the red canyons, in the elusive shade of sacred rain. They come with the suns, they come with the sandstorm.

 

 _Do not forget me_ , she had whispered, the last time she held him in her arms. And so he hadn't. He had remembered her, as his blade turned red. He had carved her memory into the flesh of the raiders, slashed and stabbed, screamed until he could taste the crawl of smoke in his throat. The black dragon on his shield had come alive within him, the desert's vengeance, the desert's mercy. 

 

The Council members mutter when they see his sigil. Few knights have their own, especially in the Holy Order, but Lord Chancellor Palpatine had insisted. The moment that war seemed inevitable, the moment Ani was named a commander. "His men need a symbol to rally behind," Palpatine had said, quiet and reasonable. "Something to wear, to declare their loyalty."

 

"And why not the crest of the Jedi Order?" Master Windu returned, his face blank and severe as a cliff wall.

 

"All of our soldiers shall wear the Order's crest. But we must have some way of distinguishing between companies, do you not agree? Armies wear their allegiance on their surcoats. It is harmless."

 

Palpatine's will prevailed. A black dragon curls upon the breasts of his soldier's surcoats. His soldiers. His men. Anakin swallows down bile. The Kaminoans call them many names. The Grand Army of the Republic, the Brothers. Trained from birth to be legendary warriors. Ani knows what it means, that they were trained from birth. Torn from their mother's arms, and given to the spear instead.

 

They call themselves the _vod_. Ani calls them slaves. But only in the space of his own head. It seems he is always pressing his tongue against his teeth, swallowing back words unsaid. He and Obi-Wan can hardly manage a conversation that is not peppered with pauses, with gaps that want for filling. Neither of them leap to do so, anymore. The silence is easier.

 

And when he wakes in the night, shuddering, shaking, a plea dangling from the rim of his lower lip, Anakin swallows that too. Lies in the dark and waits for the soot to settle over him, a stifling blanket. The dreams come whenever he closes his eyes.

 

Dreams of black scales erupting from his skin. Wings bursting from his back, in a rain of blood, agony stretching the muscles.

 

They are less frequent when he shares his wife's bed.

 

Padmé, soft and cool as the touch of water. His overheated skin aches for her. But he is afraid to surrender to the dark when she lies under his arm, afraid he'll kiss her and taste only ashes on his tongue. Like the fire will catch, spread from his heart. He sees a lake burning, a field of lotus blossoms crisped to black, scales like endless night.

 

Dragons destroy everything they touch.

 

He confessed the haunting visions to Palpatine, once. Desperate for a willing ear, who he could not hurt, who would not be disappointed in the telling. The Lord Chancellor had hummed, slow and considering. "There are histories of old," he had said, the barest hesitation in his voice. Like it was some forbidden knowledge, a tale passed from on high. Anakin had leaned forward.

 

The Lord Chancellor told him of a time when dragons ruled the skies. He spoke of it with wistful fondness, his deep red robe brushing the marble floor. Sunset over Coruscant had burnished him in shades of yellow, a glint in his eyes when he turned to Anakin. "Mayhaps," he'd said, softly. "Mayhaps such a time will come again."

 

"Is that - " Anakin's throat was dry. "Do you think - if the dragons returned..."

 

"The war would be won." Chancellor Palpatine sighs, turns back to the falling night. "Anakin, my dear boy. I would like to show you something when you and your battalion return. I read it once, in a book. When I was a much younger man, always looking to the stars, curious about the shape of the future."

 

"Very well," he had answered, standing and securing his sword belt. "What is it?"

 

"A prophecy." Palpatine rested his frail hand on Anakin's shoulder. "A prophecy from the distant past, when  _Darth_ simply meant dragonlord."

 

Anakin leans closer to the flames. He has never been one to rely on prophecy. The Jedi Masters talked of the Chosen One, stormborn, child with an ear for the gods. Promised child, a king or a prince. Not a slave, but still - some on the Council had looked to him, when he spoke of sands whipped into fury by the winds, dark, forbidding storms that shadowed the horizon of his homeland. 

 

No one had spoken of his destiny in Tatooine. Slaves do not have destinies or fortunes, they are not spoken of in prophecies. Freedom is the only fate worth having. 

 

The wood crackles, spitting sparks. They return to Coruscant on the morrow, having captured the river stronghold of Kor Vella. The Republic fleet will be able to sail upriver now, deeper into the lands the Separatists have claimed. The city has few charms, but for his wife, Anakin would go anywhere. If the war did not call him away with regularity, he would be with her even now. 

 

Smoke curls up, and Anakin thinks of dragons, and when he sleeps, he takes to the sky. 

 

 

 

v.

 

[blossoms black as ash]

 

 

She had taken the moon tea. Dormé had found it for her. The tansy root left a sharp, metallic taste on her lips.

 

Padmé smoothes her hands over her stomach. It hadn't worked, or perhaps she had forgotten it, that last morning they were together as husband and wife. Buried under the blankets, with Anakin's arms a hot cage around her, it hadn't seemed important.

 

Her hands tremble. Across from her, in the shabby quarters she had taken up in the inn, Prince Bail Organa paces back and forth. 

 

"This is grave news," he says. 

 

"Grave? I am with child, Bail. It is hardly grave."

 

"Do not play the fool with me." His dark eyes fix on her face. "Padmé, please. You are a queen, and he is a Jedi Knight, sworn to the Order. He can never marry. Your children will be bastards!"

 

She licks her lips, looks away. Bail takes in a sharp breath. "No. Tell me you didn't."

 

"Before the old gods, we are one," she whispers. "My child will not be a bastard."

 

Bail scrubs a hand over his handsome, elegant features. Padmé hates how tired he looks. He had come, at her urgent raven, come with a pocketful of gold. Alone, trusting her word. Even now, he seeks to protect her interests. He is a true friend, an honorable man. There is little enough of honor to be found in the Lord Chancellor's court. She knows it when she sees it, rare as a precious gemstone. 

 

This is why she had told him. Someone has to know, for the sake of her child, their inheritance. She is leaving him a will, drafted quickly on parchment. To venture into the war-torn territories - she knows how dangerous this is. But she must find Anakin. She must. 

 

Lord Chancellor Palpatine smiles at her from her memory, cold and vicious, his eyes slitted with satisfaction. 

 

She had come to him out of desperation. Anakin had left two weeks before, distracted and hasty, his eyes glazed. When she had received his letter that morning, she could barely make out the black scrawl. Words of dragonblood and prophecy. Something about sacrifice, a last pyre, of eggs that had turned to stone over the centuries. Padmé had read the rambling mess with one hand over her mouth. Then thrown on a gown, thick and woolen, to hide her shape. Slipped from her chambers, through the palace, the flagstones cool beneath her slippered feet. 

 

Palpatine had been in his solar, breaking his fast. Padmé knew that he was aware of the love Anakin held for her. That she held for him. He did not know they had married, though, and so she kept the letter in the sleeve of her dress. "Lord Chancellor," she had said, breathless, as she sunk into the chair opposite him. "Forgive me for disturbing you so early."

 

"Not at all, my dear girl." He broke open the bread, eyes trained on her. "What is it?"

 

"I was - Have you heard from Knight Skywalker?"

 

"Anakin? I have word they have reached Serenno, broken into the stronghold of Lord Dooku." He lifted a piece of parchment, sealed with the symbol of the Jedi Order. And next to it - a black dragon, formed in wax. Anakin's sigil. Her breath had caught. 

 

"That is... that bodes well, for the war." Padmé swallowed, blurted out, "I worry for him. I received a letter as well. He seems confused. Unwell. Did he suffer an injury, do you know, when they took Serenno?"

 

"No." Palpatine takes a delicate bite, chews thoughtfully. "He did not."

 

Padmé had felt something stir, low in her belly. Uneasy. He had only watched her, eyes hooded. She did not know what possessed her to ask. The thought of pyres, perhaps. A great pyre, he had written. "Is Dooku dead?"

 

"Yes. I expect he shall be given to the flames, any day now. A great pyre, I should think."

 

Padmé clenched her hands, fisting the fabric of her skirts. She heard what he did not say. She knew, without any effort, without any conscious thought. The truth lay somewhere deep in her gut, already there, waiting to be uncovered.

 

“Where is Anakin?” she whispered.

 

Palpatine raised an eyebrow. “Where I need him to be.”

 

She had risen from the chair without another word. Turned her back on him, made for the door. Palpatine called after her. "Careful, my dear girl. These are dangerous times we live in. You would do well to remain in the safety of the palace."

 

"I will be careful." Padmé looked back over her shoulder. Curtsied. " _Your grace._ " His eyes narrowed at the mockery, but his lips twisted up, a smirk. She had left. Went to the ravenry and scribbled furiously, sent out several letters. To Alderaan, to Theed. To Cloudpoint, where Cordé should be. She feared they were as incoherent as Anakin's last missive, but that couldn't be helped. She hadn't the time to dally. Anakin needed her. 

 

There were guards, opening her bedchamber doors, when she came down the narrow stairs. Padmé had turned back around. Gone to Teckla's rooms. The girl was not there. With her handmaiden's clothing on her back and her thin, shabby cloak wrapped around, Padmé left Coruscant. She rode through the night, driven by the mad look she had glimpsed in the Lord Chancellor's eyes, a look that promised blood and fire. 

 

Padmé shivers, and Bail mistakes her fear for a chill from the weather. He hands her his own fur-lined cloak. She buries herself in it. "We are married," Padmé tells him, defiant. "None can change that. He is my husband, and I his wife."  _No matter what. Palpatine cannot have him, he is mine._

 

Bail shakes his head. "It was reckless, Padmé!"

 

"Don't you think I know?" She stands abruptly from her chair, and now she is the one pacing to the window. Bail's long cloak drags along the ground. "It was reckless, and stupid. Foolish, I am a fool, I know all of this!" Her chest heaves, something building up, pulsing behind her lungs, drawing them tight. "And I don't care, Bail. I don't care." Tears well in her eyes. Hands shaking, she faces her friend. "I don't care. I love him."

 

She wants Anakin with her now. His hands on her shoulders, his lips on her skin. His warmth. His heat. Padmé wants every part of him, she burns with it. Everything is cast in shadows when he is not there.

 

Thrusting the will into his hands, Padmé firms her jaw. "I am going, Bail. To retrieve my husband. And then we will return to Naboo. Varykino, I think, to have the child. I will write you, when I have the chance."

 

His mouth parts, his brow creasing. "Be careful," he says. Nothing like Palpatine. "Please. And if you need me, come to Alderaan. You know you will always be welcome there. Even if you come alone."  _I will let you raise your bastard there,_ he means. Padmé runs her fingertips over his cheek. She kisses his forehead. 

 

"Farewell, my friend." Padmé leaves. She looks back only once, when she thinks she hears the clop-clop of horse's hooves, echoing apart from her own steed. There is nothing to be seen in the dark forest. 

 

 

 

vi.

  
[fire on the water]

 

 

He fingers the hilt of the freshly forged sword. Black metal, a deep ebony. Nothing like the silver one he'd discarded, next to his saddlebags. He doesn't need that one anymore. Anakin is parted from the Holy Order. Has been parted, truly, for a long while. That night under the heart tree, a sweet sort of disobedience. Worth every pain he had encountered upon the path. 

 

The swordstone glitters, deep and scarlet. Anakin hears the voices of new gods, speaking to him, leading him forward.

 

He places the eggs where the voices tell him. Dooku's body lies upon the wooden altar, pale with death. The slash of a sword had split his throat open. After all of it, the war, the lakes of blood and bodies piled like mountains, it had been too easy. 

 

The scarlet egg twitches, under his fingers. Anakin hums softly, caressing the ridges of the shell.  _The dawn of a new age,_ Palpatine had promised.  _Dragons shall return to the world._

 

And he, a dragonlord. He can see it, so clearly, he's almost able to reach out and touch the scales. The fire will protect them. None shall dare challenge him. None shall question his wife, their marriage. His child shall be a dragonrider, and from the top of such a great beast, she will be untouchable. His dreams have shown him the truth. 

 

Horse's hooves thump against the dust. Anakin turns from the pyre, sees the stallion and the woman upon its back. 

 

Padmé. A smile crawls across his face. Fingers flex like talons. _My queen._

 

He shall conquer all, like a true dragon would.

 

Anakin runs to his wife, the fire singing in his blood. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
